


Nervosa

by dearjayycee



Series: I'm i never gunna finish these (Works up for Adoption) [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, John has a Eating Disorder, M/M, Mentions of School Shooting, Recovering from Eating Disorder, Sherlock has a Eating Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26391460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjayycee/pseuds/dearjayycee
Summary: “Don’t feed my monster to starve your sickness.”  John says to Sherlock after Sherlock proposes that John eat Sherlock’s meals.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: I'm i never gunna finish these (Works up for Adoption) [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494713
Kudos: 4





	Nervosa

##  **This plot idea contains: Eating Disorders and Recovery from Eating Disorders, Mentions of School Shooting.**

**Angst Level: 8/10**

**Happy Ending (?)**

****Pairing(s): John/Sherlock****

**Please also note that this plot idea and the short written section were done when I was much younger and I am posting them exactly like I wrote them at the time. There will be spelling/grammar mistakes, rambling, and sections that might not convey the sensitive nature of this topic. I have grown a lot since I wrote this and know I am sorry if anything in them upsets you.**

**PLOT:**

Teenlock with an eating disorder, Sherlock. (Haven't thought this one out too much but I know I want it.) Probably anorexia, more of because he doesn't see the reason to eat, yes he knows you have to eat to live but at the same time, he can't get himself to do it. NOT THAT HE WANTS TO BE THINNER! But because he can't see his reason for living when everything is just so dull. He knows he is just causing a slow painful death but he could never get himself to flat out kill himself. He wanted to give himself time to think about if this was really the choice he was making (though he had been doing it for years now) it was the only decision in his life he wavered on. He starts to hallucinate because of the damage, gets sent to rehab, where he meets John, a bulimic with PTSD. By the time he realizes John is the reason for him to keep going, he can't just get himself to quit not eating, it's too ingrained in him to just turn off.

He breaks into the kitchen hoping to break his habit by eating as much as he can which he promptly throws up (from being too full (and his stomach not being about to handle food).

John is mad at him after finding out what happened, feeling mad because he doesn't want Sherlock to have what he has. (There will also be something like "Life is dull to you? That's why you are here because life is dull! I wish that was the only reason I was here! Why don't you go home and grow up.) That is when he realizes he wants to stop (john). He is so mad at Sherlock he realizes he is mad at himself for doing that to his own body.

John’s Back Story:

A kid at his school brought a gun, waving it around. John's body jumped in the way of another student, the kid accidentally shots John before killing himself. After almost dying at the hospital (technically being dead for a few minutes) and being constantly told how lucky he was he started to comfort eat. (gained about 20 pounds, got kicked off the soccer team started purging to get back on, gets back on passing out during a game rushed to the hospital, sent to rehab.) Which turned worst. He was constantly being talked about at school people giving him pitied looks when they shouldn’t have he survived and them telling him he had done a good job by saving the girl (though the kid had never meant to hurt her). They shouldn’t have been happily saying that he killed himself! Most likely due to the bullying he received from the other students. (John has body dysmorphia and wears oversized sweaters) At the end of the story, he will go and tell the family of the kid he is sorry for their loss. (Jim Moriarty, it will only be revealed to be his name at the end.)

  * Sherlock hates messes but learns to deal with them after having seen John throw up. Sherlock makes sure his food doesn’t touch, and that all of his cloths are neatly placed. 
  * John has a journal to help him deal with his problems (his doctor recommended it) Sherlock reads it without John’s permission. Then tells John he is a great writer not seeing the problem with reading it. 



Lines I want in the story-

“Don’t feed my monster to starve your sickness.” John says to Sherlock after Sherlock proposes that John eat Sherlock’s meals. 

[Chapter 1]

  1. Sherlock is lying in bed, Mycroft tells him to get up so they can go to dinner.
  2. He get’s dressed in may layers of clothes.
  3. They go out to a fancy restaurant, his father orders foie gras, Sherlock doesn’t want to eat it.
  4. He hides his food in a napkin and also giving it to Mycroft (without his knowledge).
  5. His parents are proud he is eating and is forced to swallow the last bite.
  6. His brother picks up his napkin and reveals his little secret. 
  7. Mr. Holmes is furious. while Mrs. Holmes is disappointed.



[Chapter 2]

  1. They go to rehab
  2. Mrs. Hudson calls Molly to take Sherlock to go to the clinic to check him out.
  3. He is underweight, and luckily at this point doesn’t have much irriversable damage, though it is highly unlikely he will gain his height back, and he has caused real damage to his Kidney and liver. 
  4. Molly escorst him to his room saying that



**STORY:**

[CHAPTER 1]

_ ‘Anorexia Nervosa. An eating disorder characterized by immoderate food restriction and irrational fear of gaining weight. I am not scared of gaining weight, I just don’t see the point in sticking around. Why live life if it’s so dull? If I were an average man, I might have already killed myself. But I’m not. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and no matter what the idiotic doctors my mother hires say, I am not anorexic.’ _

__ Sherlock was tired, much too tired to try and get up to do anything. So he lay in bed looking up at his ceiling, letting his mind wander to whatever it pleased. Unfortunately, it kept drifting back to doctor’s visit after doctor’s visit, threats upon threats of rehab, and argument after argument about the way he ate. It caused him to want to eat less; thinking maybe if he ate less then it would all stop. He wondered when it would finally cause his body to fall over in defeat. He had lost an inch of height already, so he was sure it wouldn’t be too long before his kidneys gave out, and then the rest would follow. Sherlock pulled his quilt up higher, seeking warmth in his room that never felt warm enough. 

“Sherlock! Get up, we’re going out to dinner.” Mycroft seemed irritated as per usual. His footsteps stalked off down the hallway, towards his own room, which had always been much too close for comfort. 

Sure, Sherlock didn’t want to get up but he knew if stayed put, his brother would soon come back and barge into his room, making him get up. More than anything Sherlock hated being told what to do, it honestly made him want to do the opposite of what he was told. He supposed that was why it all started. Mother always telling him how to dress and behave, father always hovering when it came to studies. When he realized he was not living his own life, he snapped like the proverbial camel’s back. He had been living his family’s life, a life they dictated for him. So he broke, and with time he was strong enough to admit it. 

Forcing his body out of bed was becoming harder and harder as the days went by, but he finally convinced his socked feet to reach the floor. He padded over to his wardrobe, still being tightly wrapped in his nightwear and a robe. Sherlock pulled out an undershirt, dress shirt, dress jacket, slacks, a scarf and his trench coat. Layers meant warmth. It also hid his body from unwelcome eyes. If they didn’t see what he was doing, they couldn’t judge him. 

Sherlock did not dare look down at his own body, as he got dressed, his eyes had been trained to stay on walls for a long time now. Once dressed he walked into the bathroom, grabbing the brush off of the counter and brushing rigorously as he tried to tame the beast that was his hair. The mirror that once sat on his restroom wall had been removed years ago, once he had stopped being able to look at the monster everyone thought he was. 

_ ‘They were all ignorant children who didn’t know genius when it hit them over their heads.’  _ He was not trying to be rude the first time it happened. He had just lightly pointed out to the only person who had ever been nice to him that his ‘oh, so perfect’ head cheerleader girlfriend had been cheating on him for about a year. After that, Sally made it her goal to ruin his life, not that he cared much for her pathetic attempts, he choose to beat them with wit, which in turned made her and her groupies madder. 

Sherlock was infinitely glad that Easter break started a day ago. It gave him a chance to get away from their silly games and immaturity for two weeks.  _ ‘Maybe I’ll be dead by the time school starts again. It would be nice to go out without having to see them.’  _

“Sherlock! Get out here now.” Mycroft irritated him immensely, but he had no choice when it came to the matter, he lived in his parent’s house and they were in control. Disappointingly, they had passed this control on to Mycroft, who clung to it like a dying man clings to life. Perhaps lust for control was genetic, for Sherlock had inherited it just as surely as his elder brother. That was what anorexia was all about in the end, a desire for control. Though Sherlock’s mind stubbornly inserted ‘ _ Well that would be true if I had anorexia. Which I don’t.’  _

__

-.X.-

“He  _ will _ have the foie gras.” Mr. Holmes told the waiter after he had decided Sherlock had taken to long to tell the man what he wanted.  _ ‘Father is wrong, even if I did eat…I wouldn’t choose that. Really, why would anyone eat fattened duck liver? Sure it was good for you, high in iron, vitamin A, and cholesterol. Containing 250 calories with 220 from fat per serving, not including any sauces, sides, or seasonings.’  _

By the time he thought of all the permutations of the French dish, the waiter was already back with their meal. He set the plates in front of them, and asked if they needed anything else, to which his father answered for all of them with a curt ‘no’. 

Sherlock pushed his asparagus around on his plate, moving it through what looked like balsamic vinegar,  _ ‘Fourteen calories per tablespoon.’  _ The liver set on top of a spoonful of mashed potatoes. He hated his food touching, it made everything taste wrong. Sherlock continued to push his food about, spreading it out to make it look like less. 

“Sherlock, do you know how much foie gras costs?” Sherlock hated the belittling tone is father used with him, he was not a little boy anymore.

“Yes, father, I do. About £40 a pound.”  _ ‘A ridiculous price for animal liver. Well, human liver is  _ £ _ 101,500 pounds on the black market so  _ £ _ 40 is extremely cheap in comparison. ’  _

“Sherlock, that plate costs £30, eat your food.” Mr. Holmes was now staring him down, his mother just looked over to him in pity. Sherlock hated that look on her face, he hated most everything these days it seemed. 

“Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t eat your food, I swear to god I am going to-” The threat was left hanging and because of this it lost all value in his son’s eyes.  _ ‘Father never was good with threats. It’s sad really, all that talk and no follow through.‘  _ Sherlock might have been frightened if anything his father said meant anything to him. 

Sherlock placed a miniscule bite in his mouth, letting it sit on his tongue as he moved his jaw up and down, waiting for his father to look away. When the other man finally did, he gracefully brought his napkin up to his mouth in the most inconspicuous way and spat his food out into it. He repeated this throughout dinner sometimes placing food on Mycroft’s plate when they were all engaged in conversation. The look of surprise on his brothers face when there was still more food on his plate disgusted Sherlock, that little smile that said ‘Oh goody, food!’ 

Dinner was almost done and he had so far gotten by with only the horrid taste left on his tongue. There was only a little bit left on his plate, he scooped it up as he looked towards his parents whom were both openly staring at him with pride. Sherlock hardly thought eating was something to be proud of, well, fake eating in his case. 

He ‘fake chewed’ while he waited for them to look away but their stares did not waver, to them this was the bite that mattered, the bite that said ‘I ate all this food, I am now better.’ Sherlock Holmes was the exact opposite of better, and no matter how much he told himself he hated these people, he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint them. He started to chew, the sensation feeling foreign to him. When he was sure he wouldn’t choke Sherlock let the food roll down the back of his tongue. The feeling of food hitting the bottom of his stomach, automatically made him want to abort the mission and let it all come back up. Sherlock never did like throw-up it was messy and foul. 

The smile on his mother’s face almost split the skin covering her skull in two. She was so pleased it repulsed him.  _ ‘What a silly thing to be pleased over. Why don’t they save if for Mycroft, if my one bite is so satisfying they should at least buy Mycroft an island for eating most of my plate.’  _ The waiter came back to pick up there plates, and in his state of utter revulsion he placed his napkin on the now empty plate in front of him. Mycroft reached over and peeled back the wadded up thing a little to see it was stuck together with mash, Sherlock had no time to stop the other. Both his parents looked over to what everyone around was now preoccupied with. That stupid napkin. 

Mother looked so distraught with him, maybe she’d finally realized what he was.  _ ‘It’s better her knowing now. She won’t blame herself when I’m gone, she will be able to say “I tried.”’ _

“I warned you. When we get home, pack your bags.” This furry came to late, had it been in any of the early threats Sherlock might have taken his father more seriously. He might have saved himself the trouble of what was about to happen, might have ended it earlier. 

Sherlock knew whatever was in store for him his father meant business. 

[Chapter 2]

Sherlock walked down a bright white hall, his mother and father flanking his sides, one hand each grasping at his shoulder with Mycroft bringing up the rear. He didn’t blame them for taking these precautions. If they were currently guided him to head physiatrist’s office in this fashion Sherlock would be trying to run away.

The only good thing about this whole situation was his parents had thought him fragile and made Mycroft be his pack-mule. Which was pleasing. Sherlock hated the stale smell of sick that floated through the building. This whole place was utterly revolting, and he would do just about anything to get out of this place. Finally reaching the end of the hall his parents escorted him into the office to sit down in the chair in front of a large oak desk. An older lady sat behind it, quietly smiling and waving for them to take a seat, Sherlock sat directly in front of Dr. Hudson as her name tag indicated with his parents looming at his side. Mycroft had followed a young lady to his new prison to put up the luggage. 

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. How was your trip up?” She grinned widely, confusion both of the Holmes adults with her lightheartedness towards their current situation. Sherlock was only slightly intrigued by her behavior but was really to busy thinking of way to escape to worry about her much. He caught the frown in his father’s word he looked up to find the man’s eyebrows knitted fully together. 

“It was fine.” Mr. Holmes voice was sharp, as if trying to stab the doctor, Sherlock thought it was rather funny. 

“Molly,” Mrs. Hudson sung out, smiling full force while she waited for ‘Molly’ to step into the room. It turns out it was the young lady who had escorted Mycroft to his room. Sherlock’s brother now stood against a wall in the office waiting for something to happen. Mycroft always seemed to wait for things to happen, lurking around, silently always there…it was rather unsettling. “Molly dear, could you take Sherlock into the clinic and check him over?” 

Molly obeyed nodding for Sherlock to follow her, which he did after giving his parents questioning glances, waiting for their approval, then strolling down the hall. She led him into a sterile white room, covered in posters about nutrition. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to adopt this story let me know.


End file.
